


i wanna feel the way it feels to make you stay

by carpethefanfics



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Bipolar Ian, Break Up, Canon Divergent, Depressed Ian, Established Relationship, Eventual Fluff, Explicit Language, Graphic Description of Injuries, Homophobic Language, M/M, Make Up, Mentions of Suicide, Post 10x06, Post Prison, Shameless style swearing, Swearing, Violence, mentions of cheating, mentions of self harm, mentions of suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:41:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25039438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carpethefanfics/pseuds/carpethefanfics
Summary: He can see Mickey’s shape in the moonlight, but he focuses on taking another drag of the cigarette in his hand, inhaling deeply so his lungs burn. He knows Mickey’s listening as he puts out the cigarette and takes a few steps forward, stopping hesitantly in front of the somber faced man. Mickey’s looking at him like Ian could break him and god, he never wants Mickey to look at him like that again. So, he lifts up his hand and lets his palm rest against Mickey’s chest to feel the soft thudding of his heart.“I’m not going to leave you.”
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 23
Kudos: 86





	1. i took the stars from our eyes, and then i made a map and knew that somehow i could find my way back

**Author's Note:**

> A Gallavich story in five parts.
> 
> Title is I Want You Anyway by Jon McLaughlin.

“You don’t have to wait for me Ian. I don’t need you to.”

When Mickey finds out that Ian got his parole, he protects himself first. Ian knows Mickey. Knows that yeah, Mickey doesn’t need him _to wait_ but he does **need** him. So, Ian doesn’t even flinch, instead- he lets air fill his lungs as his hand moves to rest against Mickey’s chest and says the only thing he can think to say.

“I **promise** Mick.”

He thought he would go home when he got out, but he doesn’t think he can be in that space anymore. He had spent too many days staring at those walls, with Mickey and without him, far too deep inside his own head. _How do you stay in a room with so much history you could explode?_

Instead, he finds an apartment- still on the south side- but close enough between the new EMT gig his parole officer has hooked him up with and his family. He goes for runs and he regulates his meds and he makes it to all his parole meetings and he gets to work on time. He even visits Mickey this time around when work allows him, and he writes him letters when he can’t. 

“You don’t have to keep writing me idiot, you’ll see me in two weeks.”

He just smiles,“I **_want_** to.”

Mickey never writes him back but honestly; Ian doesn’t really care. He puts his day on paper and talks about his job and the apartment and his nephew. He hopes he’s giving Mickey something new to dream of when he’s out.

He furnishes the place as best he can with a couch and a tv and a bed that he can actually fit on from head to toe. When Mr. Babyak finally croaks and the neighbourhood empties (or loots) the house out onto the street for a real south side auction, he finds himself with two dressers, two bed side tables and a bookshelf. _It’s almost a home_ , he thinks when his siblings pile inside with two large pizzas and a case of beer for him. 

Now, he just needs **Mickey**.

*

When he wakes up almost seven months into living at his new place at eight o’clock in the morning to an incredibly loud banging on his front door that reminds him of all the times growing up that the police had come, his stomach drops.

He’s slipping on sweats and running through the list of bills he might have missed or the shift he forgot when his meds made him foggy and praying the noise is none of those things.

He swings the door open quick and there goes his heart.

He’d always had a thing for bright blue eyes.

“You gunna let me in or you gunna stand there with your dick in your hand all day?”

And that crooked smirk.

The name comes out breathless, “ **Mickey**.”

He’s not moving in; he tells Ian that pretty quickly, but Ian really doesn’t fucking care. He’s just happy to have Mickey here, in his arms, underneath him, as much as he can have him.

And Ian tries- to have Mickey, to make it up to Mickey, to fucking rectify what he’s done to them- _god fucking dammit he tries_.

He puts in the work to show Mickey that he means it when he says _I’m sorry_ and _I’ll be here,_ and _I want this_. He does it the best way he knows how. He says things off the cuff. He lets the feelings he wanted Mickey to know from the moment he had laid eyes on him fall out into the open because that’s what Mickey deserved.

In prison, he hadn’t wanted to say things to Mickey that Mickey didn’t want to hear. Four concrete walls and a locked cell door always made him bite his tongue because Mickey couldn’t run from the rampant thoughts in Ian’s head or his relentless mouth. And even though there’s that irritating pit inside Ian that needed to know he was wanted just as much as he wanted Mickey, he wouldn’t do that to Mickey. Wouldn’t push him. Not this time.

Now, at least if Mickey wanted to, he could run. But he doesn’t. Not at first.

When Mickey comes home from his first day of work at the mechanic shop- _“Fuck Mick- you keep comin over lookin like that and we’re not going to make it to the bedroom.”_ He swears he sees Mickey blush.

When Mickey wakes up on a Sunday morning to the smell of pancakes and the sight of Ian with smears of batter on his face, a spatula in his hand - _“When I pictured making you breakfast, always had to be those damn banana pancakes.”_ Mickey’s smile is wide- and Ian he thinks, for a moment, maybe he can see the future in Mickey’s eyes.

When Mickey asks if he should call his doctors because it’s been a few days and he doesn’t know if Ian’s going to come out of this one, Ian shifts to look over at him- _“I did. It’s tomorrow. I’m getting better.”_ He leaves out the _for you Mick_ that sits on the tip of his tongue.

He also takes Mickey out to restaurants where no one will know their names and kisses him deeply in dark booths, letting Mickey lose himself in the feeling of Ian’s mouth for so long that it’s not until the waiter comes back a second time, clearing their throat loudly, that the two of them are brought back to reality. Ian smirks, Mickey’s cheeks burn as he orders, and Ian just slides his hand onto Mickey’s tensed thigh to make those cheeks burn even more.

And he starts bringing home flowers trying to find the ones that will make Mickey light up. It takes him about several dozen- and _a lot_ of Mickey mouthing the fuck off about _wasting money_ and being _extra fucking gay_ \- until Ian walks through the front door with the right ones. It’s an array of these star-something lilies in this deep blue because fuck it, they reminded Ian of Mickey’s eyes. The way those eyes go a little wide makes Ian tell Mickey between breathless kisses down his neck that he’ll buy him a dozen a week for the rest of his life if he gets to see that look again.

It feels pefect.

But Ian doesn’t yet understand just how much that stuff isn’t **enough**.

There are things left unsaid between them that burn so deeply that when they’re dropped like matches on the living floor in the middle of an argument _\- oh yeah you say that when you were leaving me, fucking around on me_ \- Ian fucking deteriorates.

He freezes up while Mickey throws in his face all the things he’s done like it’s a grocery list he’s wringing off from his memory, and then Mickey ducks out and Ian doesn’t chase him. He lets Mickey disappear for the day, for the whole night, and when he comes back, he might tell Ian where he went when Ian asks softly. Ian tries not to let those nights break him, but they do. He wants to kick up a fight, scream and pull and drag Mickey back but it’s his punishment, right?

He deserves it… _right?_

All he can do is what he used to do when Mickey was gone before prison. He sits by the window and stares out to a new lamp-lit street and he looks at the moon. The ache is all the same. The last time Mickey does it- run out after screaming at Ian- the last time Ian thought Mickey would punish him for his decisions, he feels much too vulnerable.

Mickey’s tone is clipped, a little harsh. Ian thinks he's probably been drinking but there’s also some concern there that Ian clings onto, “Christ Gallagher, its four in the fucking morning- the fuck are you doin?”

“I asked myself if I made the right decision after you left.”

Mickey pauses in the centre of the room, just far enough away from Ian that he can look but not touch, “I sat up at night and hated myself for not going with you. I regret it and I don’t, you know? They needed me here and you needed me there and I- well I don’t really know what I needed.”

He can see Mickey’s shape in the moonlight, but he focuses on taking another drag of the cigarette in his hand, inhaling deeply so his lungs burn. He knows Mickey’s listening as he puts out the cigarette and takes a few steps forward, stopping hesitantly in front of the somber faced man. Mickey’s looking at him like Ian could break him and _god_ , he never wants Mickey to look at him like that again. So, he lifts up his hand and lets his palm rest against Mickey’s chest to feel the soft thudding of his heart.

“ **I’m not going to leave you**.”

The unsaid word, _again_ , floats between them like heavy smog.

After that night, after saying the words Ian thought Mickey needed to hear it gets better- and worse. They toe a fine line like they always have. Sometime Ian forgets that he’s pulling Mickey in too much and sometimes Mickey pushes Ian back too hard. They have sex like they haven’t seen each other in years- like they’re starved. It’s aggressive and heated and leaves Ian so fucking exhausted he can barely whisper goodnight. Ian keeps letting his admissions fall from his lips, never failing to make Mickey still for no more than a moment before he’s moving again because Ian knows Mickey’s still wound a little tight with fear. Fear of hurt, fear of rejection, fear of the power Ian has. 

But Ian tries.

And that’s what matters? Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title is Cosmic Love by Florence + The Machine


	2. and in the dark, i can hear your heartbeat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic depictions of violence and explicit language.

Nothing ever stays sweet.

Despite that night, Mickey keeps punishing Ian; yanking away at that frayed thread that feels like it’s the only thing holding them together. He doesn’t know why the fuck he does, but he does. He’s been angry since he got out and they haven’t talked- _really talked_ , and it’s like as much as he wants it, he also doesn’t.

So, he tells Ian to fuck off and for a while he stays away, but Ian won’t. He’s showing up at the house, making all these promises Mickey isn’t sure he can keep about being better and doing better and making it up to him. But all Mickey can wonder is how to you repair trust with date nights? How do you mend a broken heart with pancakes? Without a real goddamn apology? Without some assurance they’ll never hurt you again. _You can’t. It doesn’t work like that_. All the moments in the world don’t feel like they amount to nearly enough.

And then Mickey says something because his skin is hot and his chest is tight and Ian’s looking at him with this crazed face begging him to come back, “Don’t you get it? I don’t fucking _love you_ anymore!”

When he crawls into bed that night, the only thing he can picture although his vision is blurry from the alcohol is the look of Ian’s face as Mickey slammed the door.

He hates himself for it.

And he hates himself more because he doesn’t even mean it.

 **Not one bit**.

*

Weeks pass without Ian showing up at his door and entire nights roll by where Mickey stares at his phone from where it sits on his bedside table hoping it’ll light up- or praying for the courage to reach for it himself.

_Fuck …_

He couldn’t. So, instead, Mickey was spending a lot of days doing a whole lot of fucking **nothing**. Well, if nothing consisted of excessive drinking, working his shifts, and smoking.

“Gunna tell me the fuck is goin on?”

Mickey’s sitting on the edge of his bed staring at the wall mindlessly with a few empty beer cans scattered around his feet when Iggy walks into his room, “Fuck off.”

“When you stop moping around like some fuckin fag sure,” Iggy replies. Mickey grunts and rolls his eyes and doesn’t know why he tells his brother a single thing about it, but he does, “We’re done.” It’s almost easy when it rolls of his tongue, surreal even, to say it aloud- especially to his brother. He feels the laughter crawl up his throat at the fucking irony of it all- the sound comes out short and disgruntled and harsh. It washes over Mickey making him feel sick, making his skin and his eyes burn again.

Iggy’s brows furrow together like he isn’t sure what to ask Mickey next. It’s not like they’re close, it’s not like they have ever had a conversation like this before. Mickey sighs and moves from his bed to walk towards the kitchen, brushing past Iggy and hoping the conversation will just fall away but Iggy follows him.

“Can I fuckin help you?” Mickey spits at Iggy who is still just staring at him with this stupid constipated look on his face.

“Why?” Iggy asks. And Mickey blinks at him as Iggy finishes the sentence slowly, “…did it end…”

Mickey rolls his eyes, “You really wanna fuckin’ talk about this?” 

Iggy’s gaze turns steely for a minute, it’s a look that Mickey has only seen when they’re on runs; a look that tells Mickey that the Milkovich anger gene is threatening to bubble over inside him.

“No. What I wanna know is if I gotta bash in his fuckin skull.”

In any other family Mickey would have probably laughed and Iggy would have laughed and there would be something warm flowing around the room. But this isn’t any family, this is _his_ family. Iggy is still holding that gaze and his knuckles stretch tight as his hands curl into fists, but Mickey just jerks his head down as he leans back on the counter.

Iggy’s voice is low, “He ended it?”

Mickey raises his head again and he isn’t sure whether to nod or jerk his head because they both had? I mean it was Mickey’s mouth, but they had been at each other’s throats for weeks, right? Iggy gives him a questionable look before disappearing into his room. Mickey lets out a sigh and turns back to open the fridge considering he doesn’t remember the last time he consumed anything solid. But then he hears Iggy mumbling and stomping around and the front door slams in a way that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end before he hears Iggy yell, “I’m gunna FUCKIN kill him.”

As soon as Mickey hears him, he rips out the front door like his whole body is on fire, but he’s already lost sight of Iggy whose driving off in the one and only car in their driveway. He knows exactly where he’s going, and he tears up the street after him. Fucking Iggy and his inability to take a fucking hint. Obviously, Mickey didn’t want him to fucking hurt Ian _goddammit_. It was just a stupid fucking break up … that felt like it was destroying him … but, nonetheless.

When Mickey gets there, his chest is tight and he’s breathing heavy and what he sees makes his lungs empty. There’s his brother standing just inside the gate at the Gallagher’s house holding a fucking baseball bat and there’s Lip standing in front of Ian just at the bottom of the porch steps. From where Mickey’s running it looks like Lip’s holding Ian back and Mickey’s suddenly very, _very_ confused why they haven’t gone back in the house and bolted the door closed. He figured if they were going to at least try to take Iggy on, Lip would back Ian up. With two on one, could be easy enough for them to get rid of Iggy but maybe it was the bat?

The closer Mickey gets, he can see Ian’s already got blood dribbling down his face above his eye and it looks like it’s coming out of his nose smearing over his mouth and dripping onto the ground from his chin. He can hear them yelling louder and louder as he jogs closer.

“You deserve to lose your fuckin **TEETH** , Gallagher”

“Ian-” Lip keeps trying to push Ian back towards the house and Mickey knows how hard that is. More than once he’s been the one trying to push back a riled-up Ian and it’s like slamming your hands off a brick fucking wall.

“Get off-” Ian shoves his brother and turns back to Iggy, “Fucking **_DO IT,_** **PUSSY**!”

Only Lip turns his head at the sound of Mickey and in that moment, “Iggy, what the _fuck_?!”

The moment he catches eyes with Ian he can’t help but cry out, “STOP” because Ian uses the distraction to push Lip backwards. The moment Lip stumbles into the porch railing, Ian’s moving so fast at Iggy that Mickey barely has time to take another step forward before Iggy swings the bat. It connects with Ian’s shoulder rather than his head, _thank fucking god_. At the same time that Mickey is so glad all those years of training with the stupid ROTC gave him some quick reflexes he also cringes at the resounding thump of the bat colliding with Ian’s shoulder. It sounds like it really, _really_ fuckin hurts but it doesn’t seem stop Ian from egging Iggy on even though he’s toppled over onto his knees and he’s clutching his arm and grunting like it might be broken.

“That all you got bitch?! I **_ripped_** out your brother’s heart, didn’t I?!”

Mickey cringes. He moves to grab Iggy back but all he can get is jacket and shirt. He’s frantically wrapping his arms around his brother’s neck, but Iggy has Ian on his back and Ian doesn’t seem to be doing fucking anything to protect himself. Mickey can hear himself _begging_ Iggy to stop, _begging_ Ian to shut the hell up, but **no one is listening**.

“Worthless piece of _SHIT_!”

Iggy’s fist clicks with Ian’s jaw again as his other arm grips Mickey’s forearm around his neck trying to loosen Mickey’s hold. Lip is begging him too and pushing at Iggy’s chest just like Mickey is pulling. The bat was dropped somewhere. Mickey can see that his brother’s fist is coated in blood and it makes everything inside him turn cold, “Ian _shut the fuck up_!”

“WHY?! I FUCKING **DESERVE** IT, DON’T I!”

Ian’s words are just ringing in Mickey’s head as he finally, with the help of Lip, pulls Iggy backwards off of Ian. Mickey steps in front of his brother, grabbing a hold of his collar, pulling him back, “Get the fuck out of here!”

Lip is all over Ian the moment Mickey gives them some reprieve. He’s grabbing at him and checking if he’s okay, trying to stop the running blood with the sleeve of his shirt. Mickey feels the fleeting wish run through him that he could check- make sure Ian’s in one piece. At least physically. As Mickey turns to look back at them, he watches Lip take a step forward, “ _You dumb motherfucker-_ ” but, he also watches Ian grab Lip and pull him back.

Mickey watches Ian spit blood onto the pathway and grit his jaw, “Thought you were gunna **kill** me Iggy? Not gunna live up to your goddamn _promise_?”

Iggy steps forward into Mickey’s hand which is held up to hold him back, “Fuck with my brother again and I will.”

The sentence leaves a chill running down Mickey’s back. Iggy storms off after that, throwing the bat into the back of the car and leaving Mickey to stand there with Lip and Ian. He’s looking at them and he’s at an absolute fucking loss. He keeps his eyes fixed on Ian and his stomach clenches. Ian’s face reminds him of the day in the Alibi when he had finally admitted to his family- and to himself- who he was. They were both so bloody and sore with bruises on their ribs and knuckles for weeks. Ian’s right eye is already swelling, and his face is _covered_ in blood. He hopes it’s not worse than it looks. Ian is clutching his shoulder, but there’s a hard look on his face.

“Jesus Christ Ian,” Lip mutters, turning back to his brother.

Mickey’s voice comes out low and angry, “What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?”

He thinks for a minute something like ache or hurt passes across Ian’s face. It looks, briefly, like its more than just the pain of the fight. He stares at Mickey and Mickey wants to break away the hardness; wants to run his hands over Ian. He isn’t sure why the universe is playing such a cruel joke on him because when he had sat in his room wishing Ian felt half of the pain that he had made Mickey feel, this isn’t what he fucking **meant**.

“Couldn’t come here yourself?! Gotta sic your psycho brother on him!?” 

Lip’s face breaks out into pure rage and Mickey tenses, waiting for Lip to stalk over to him and repeat everything that had just happened. He goes through the mental gymnastics of knowing he could probably take out Lip considering he had done it before, but Lip barely even has the chance to take a step when Ian moves quicker than he probably should in the state he’s in. Mickey watches Ian grip the back of Lip’s shirt and pull him again, his arm swinging across Lip’s chest to get him back towards the house.

“ ** _No_**.”

Ian’s voice has a hard edge to it that makes Mickey’s eyes go as wide as Lips. But the look disappears quickly from Lips face who suddenly seems too fucking full of a anger he barely knows how to control so he shoves Ian away from him and storms into the house, slamming the front door back so loud it reverberates around them.

“Fuck Ian,” the muttering from Mickey is all Ian can really hear before he’s watching Mickey walk away from him- **again**. His gut is churning, and his head is swimming and he’s holding back vomit which he probably thinks is a sign of a concussion. But he’s grateful, as sick as that fucking sounds. Iggy had given his mind a break from the relentless trail of self-hatred and guilt spewing through.

He fucked up. Mickey broke it off. This was part of the punishment.

So, he pushes it all down, and walks back inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title is Cosmic Love by Florence + The Machine.


	3. i wanna hold you in my arms, i wanna let you break my heart

Ian had just wanted to sit there and **_drink_**. After the fucking last few weeks he’s had, he can’t just go home and sit with his thoughts while his siblings stare at him and check in on him like he’s about to have a nervous fucking breakdown. So, he walked until he couldn’t walk anymore and clamoured into a booth in the back corner. He told Kev that all he really needed was an entire bottle of whiskey and the soft chatter of a bar where no one is going to try to ride his dick. It had never really been his drink, but it reminded him of nights better than this and a mouth he probably wasn’t going to taste again anytime soon.

With every sip and every burn, he feels his muscles loosen, but it’s not really calming him the way he hopes. Plus, his face is still fucking throbbing with the pain of a black eye, a purple cheekbone and a yellowing jaw. His mind has been a whirlwind for so long know and he hates himself a little more with every passing second that he sits there. He had fucked up the best thing in his life and now he couldn’t get Mickey’s face out of his head. That day, Ian saw a swirl of fury and rage because Mickey just kept leaving, but what was killing him was the heartache. He had seen the expression Mickey made once before– the day Ian left him at the border. He had promised himself he wouldn’t do this again.

But now he’s here and Mickey is god knows where.

He slams the glass back onto the table and lets his eyes close. _Fuck_.

“Another one?”

Ian nods his head and lets his eyes open, hoping Kev doesn’t have the same look of pity that everyone else is wearing when they talk to him, but then his whole-body locks. He’s been facing the front door to the bar just out of pure habit and he’s not anticipating the face he sees. He’s wearing a dark shirt and dark jeans, his hair slicked back and his eyes bright. He takes the breath right out of Ian and for a moment, he feels relief spread through him. Until he sees a hand clasping Mickey’s shoulder and another body follows him through the door. He’s tall and built with sandy blonde hair and a blinding smile.

Ian feels like his body is on fire. 

“You good?”

Ian takes the bottle out of Kevin’s hand and swings it back. He feels very overwhelmed by the taste of alcohol burning his throat and filling his mouth but holy fuck he needs to be _numb_ right now. His split lip is screaming at him to stop, he can feel it ripping open. He can feel tears at his eyes, but he swallows until he can’t bear it- until he hears Kev’s voice, “ _Jesus, easy man_ ” and bottle is being pulled back from him. He doesn’t know how much he just drank but his mouth tastes like fucking rubbing alcohol and his vision blurs.

“No.”

Kev slides into the booth across from him as Ian tears his eyes away from the backs of the two men now at the bar and he feels everything welling inside of him.

He’s fixated his eyes on a spot on the table, “How do I- What am I- _**Christ**_.” He looks up at Kev who’s watching him, Ian feels the pity glance and just shakes his head, “He’s the love of my fucking life.”

Ian turns his head to watch the scene at the bar. They’re sitting on stools now and the guy has moved his hand so it’s resting almost on Mickey’s knee. They’re laughing- the guy has this soft look on his face like Mickey’s fucking _wonderful_ and Ian breaks. When he was nothing more than a kid and Mickey had kicked the shit out of him just because Ian dared call him gay, dared tell Mickey he loved him, he thought heartbreak was the worst possible feeling. He had crumbled that night in his bed- wishing for Mickey and sobbing. But now, right now, he feels like that was absolutely fucking nothing to the deep fucking hollowness that has curled inside him. He’s watching Mickey across the bar, seeing him smile at a guy who isn’t him and knowing that he isn’t the one who gets to do that anymore- it’s fucking earth shattering.

Kev’s voice trails his thoughts, “He deserves to be happy.”

He hadn’t even realized he had started crying as Kev pulls him back to himself. He wipes his face with the back of his hand then he nods, his voice is watery and low, “I know.”

He wonders how you cope with that. How people let the past- a past that literally altered every fabric of them- fall away? He wonders if he should just drink more. If he should pretend that they never happened. If he should let himself spiral like he really fucking wants too. The old Ian, the Ian he was when it had been Mickey breaking his heart, would have slammed the guy’s head into the bar top and screamed. The old him would have climbed a bridge and let his feet dangle over the edge to make himself feel anything other than the fucking pain that is reverberating in his chest. But that isn’t who he is anymore and as much as he wants to fall into habits that have always comforted him, he knows he just has to feel it. He doesn’t think he could forget Mickey if he tried and truthfully, **he doesn’t want to**.

He doesn’t really know how to be in the bar now- how to be in the same space with Mickey and not _be with Mickey_. So, he pulls out his wallet, drops enough to almost cover the entire bottle of whiskey that’s still in Kevin’s hands and grips the jean jacket that’s next to him in the booth.

“I can’t.”

Kev nods as Ian slides out of the booth and heads towards the door. He slips past tables of people hoping that he can make it to the door before Mickey notices he’s even there but him and his guest are sitting a little to close to it. He makes it until his hand is pushing against the familiar wood when he hears that voice, “Gallagher?”

He freezes with his hand against the door and tries to stop the way his stomach is swirling- he hopes it’s from the alcohol and nothing more. He turns back slowly and his eyes hook onto those familiar blue ones. _Definitely more than the alcohol_.

His voice feels raw when he talks, “Mickey.”

He clasps the jacket in his hand a little tighter and the guy next to Mickey spins to look him over. The guy’s eyes widen slightly when they catch sight of Ian.

“Fuck you doin out so late?”

Ian takes a deep breath through his nose and lets his free hand come up to rub the back of his neck, “Drinking. Same as everyone here.” He keeps his answers short; he knows his tone is dry but honestly, he’s afraid of what might come spilling of him. He drops his hand when he catches the slow way Mickey’s eyes follow his hand; the way his jaw tenses and his shoulders roll back.

_Clearly Ian still had some effect._

“I have to-” but Mickey cuts him off, “This is Andrew.” Ian gives the blonde a tight nod which Andrew reciprocates, clearly uncomfortable with whatever is flowing between them.

“He’s an EMT. Ian’s one of those.”

Andrew turns over to look at him again and grimaces at what is probably the state of Ian’s bruised up face, “Oh cool. I mainly work the north...- sorry man, but- you ugh, you get into a fight or something?”

Ian wipes his thumb against his lower lip which is still stinging slightly from where he’d cracked it open slamming the whiskey bottle to his mouth and smears the few spatters of blood on his jeans, “Nothing I couldn’t handle.” He sees Mickey’s eyebrows raise faintly as Andrew gives out a light laugh and turns back to Mickey. Ian can feel the inside of cheek start to bleed from where he’s got it clenched between his teeth, “Alright well you two- er, enjoy your night.”

For half a second he wants Mickey to trail out of the bar after him. Yell at him for something- ask Ian to fight for him maybe? He’s not entirely sure but when he gets down the street and it settles inside him that Mickey’s definitely done- done chasing him, done having it out with him, just done. He wonders how much more broken he can feel.

He pulls out another cigarette and wanders.

Mickey had been a fucking asshole over the years. Ian knows this. But he had also understood- had also forgiven him. Mickey had been his saving grace in a fucking hailstorm of diagnoses and psychotic parents and scalding depression. It had been one of the reasons Ian had pushed him away and now that he’s better, now that he’s medicated and seeing clearly, he wants to hold onto those moments in the Milkovich house. They had been a family once. Fucked up and traumatized and so fucking dirt poor but, they had each other.

And Ian takes the folly for nearly everything that follows after that. Feeling like truly his parent’s son.

He won’t blame the fucking diagnosis even though his doctors and his therapist say it’s okay to do it at least a little. He can’t. He can hear Mickey in his head- _that’s a fuckin excuse and you know it_. Cheating and lying and stealing like a common fucking criminal when he had everything he could want? All on him.

“Watch it dickhead.”

Ian swipes to the side as some guy nearly body checks him into the wall. Lost in thoughts of Mickey and the fucking chaos that they created he’s somehow wandered onto a street he doesn’t really recognize. And then he sees a flashing neon sign and thinks- _there are ways to keep someone close even when they’re far_.

When he wakes up the next morning in a room now all his own, his head is fucking raging and he feels like whiskey is seeping out of his pores. He heads to the shower even though it’s probably really fucking early and strips off his shirt to get in. But first, as the memories of last night wade back into him, he stands in front of the mirror staring at the white bandages that sit taped to his chest. He pulls them back slightly to see the dark ink again, one more time before he covers it up and steps under the warm spray.

 **MIKHAILO**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title is I Want You Anyway by Jon McLaughlin.
> 
> I know there have been quite a few works that have done this 'trope' but after I read Humility by sensationseeker I couldn't get it out of my head.


	4. tell me this is just a dream, cause i'm really not fine at all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of self harm, suicide and suicidal ideation.

“I thought about it.”

Lip’s entire body tenses up at how casual Ian lets those words fall.

“More than enough ways. Tried to write a letter even but I could never figure out what to say.”

They’re standing in the living room and Ian feels so fucking empty and hollow that he could crawl inside himself and sleep a hundred years. But still, he trails outside again trying to feel something other than trapped and Lip trails after him from where Ian had tried to abandon him. He had been pestering him since he got home, and Ian felt like he might deck him.

Ian had headed to the Gallagher house rather than his own like he normally would- it’s late but the shift had shaken him up. There’s more than heaviness floating around him and Lip thinks he could choke on it. He can see Ian’s eyes are rimmed with red and he can tell there’s something tight sitting in his chest that Ian keeps rubbing at.

Lip’s looking at him with furrowed brows and an irritated expression, “This about Mickey? You’re not fuckin ruined forever Ian. Christ.”

Ian curses Lip’s thick fucking head, “You don’t get it.”

But Ian can practically feel Lip rolls his eyes behind him and Ian contemplates smacking him, “So explain it to me then because it sounds a hell of a lot like you’re just feelin fuckin sorry for yourself like you always do.”

Ian crumbles. He leans back into the wooden step above him and lets his eyes draw closed as tries to fight the fucking welling up of emotion that’s definitely threatening to tear through him, “It’s not me I feel fuckin sorry for. Don’t you get that? It’s him. I feel sorry that he ever fell for me. I feel sorry that all I did was push him into this and I can’t even be who he **deserves**. And I know, _I know_ … that he doesn’t want me. Alright?” Ian can feel the tears running down his cheek, can see the pained look on Lip’s face.

“Every single time I fuckin see him Lip- every single time it feels like that day you guys left me at the hospital. And- and I fucking _shatter_. I will never be able to make up for what I did. Never. And yeah I know he did shit, I'm not fucking stupid. He never should have done half the things he did to me but fuck Lip, his dad and his family. He was just trying to survive. I understood, I always understood. But I had no reason to act the way I did. And yeah, I was off my meds, but it’s all still fucking part of me. I cheated- I did that - Fuck, he went to prison because of me! Who’s to say I won’t lose my fucking mind and do that to him? He can’t forgive me. He **shouldn’t**. I don’t deserve it. God, after- after all that I just wanted to dig myself a hole and fucking- like I tried to- I…” Ian trails off into the darkness trying not to let himself go there.

He just sits there on the edge of the front porch with a cigarette dangling from his lips. Lip wants to scream at him, tear his hair out, punch him in the throat but he’s been trying to be what Ian needs right now. Then again, at the sight of him, at the feel of him sitting so stark, Lip moves to place one hand gently on Ian’s back as Ian’s voice breaks the silence, _“Some guy jumped off a bridge today.”_

That’s when Lip calls Mickey.

“The fuck you-”

“Somethings wrong.”

“Where is he?”

“Front porch.”

_He never could say fucking no, could he?_

When Mickey walks up with his hands in his jacket pockets, he can see Ian’s knee is shaking- his fingers are shaking and Lip’s just standing back looking like he’s been scraping his hands against his newly shortened hair for half an hour. Mickey reaches out to still Ian’s leg and slides beside him- eyeing Lip to go inside before he turns his back to the door. Mickey feels Ian’s knee freeze.

Suddenly Ian feels this overwhelming urge of wanting Mickey to _know_ , wanting him to hear every thought that’s swirling around so he never has to second guess him again. Never has to doubt for a second that despite what Ian may do, what every version of Ian has done, that he loves him **desperately, irrevocably, absolutely-** that he would give Mickey every key to every dark door inside his head.

“I just needed to feel something- anything else. So, I went-” he pulls on the third cigarette he’s lit in the last fifteen minutes, “Monica used to take us to the bridges. They lifted for the boats in the summer and shit.” Mickey nods and Ian turns away, not sure if he can stare at Mickey’s hardened face.

“I stood there. For a while. I climbed over- and I just stood there. I wasn’t going to- I mean I didn’t want to- I don’t know. It was cold and you can hear the water. It felt like I was with mom when I was there.”

Mickey’s voice is more gruff than usual, and the words almost break apart in his mouth he’s so afraid to ask, “What made you stop?”

“Them.”

Ian turns to look back at Mickey who’s moving closer to him now. His thigh bumping against Ian’s, his arm leaning into Ian’s arm, and his hands wrapping around Ian’s hands tightly. Ian feels the faintest smile tug at his lips at the embrace and the feel of Mickey pressing into him.

“And you. Your **voice**.”

Ian takes a deep breath as he wraps his hands around Mickey’s, “Thick and thin, good times, bad, sickness, health … I have a lot more than I deserve. Even when I thought I didn’t.”

*

Mickey’s sitting at the bar again.

Last time he was here he’d brought that dumb fucking guy and hadn’t expected to see Ian- he wanted to apologize instantly. It wasn’t a date- it was just a beer with someone who didn’t know a goddamn thing about his world or his shit and probably never would. But then the smug part of him saw Ian’s smashed up face and bit his lip and let the jealousy wash over. Bit of a dick move- one he regretted the moment the door swung shut behind Ian.

Then the night on the front porch happened and he hated himself even fucking more- for not being there to welcome Ian home, for not knowing about the fucking night at the bridge before Ian told him, for barely being able to breath when he walked away from Ian. God, he fucking hates himself for pushing Ian away and not having the balls to admit it to Ian.

Now it’s the end and the whole shift was goddamn brutal- too many emergencies, couldn’t open the shop until late, gas leaks or who knows. So, he’s spending his hard-earned cash drinking cheap whiskey wondering what the fuck to do next with his fucking life.

He catches himself rubbing at the tattoo over his chest when he hears the stool next to him scrape across the floor, “I’ll have what he’s havin.”

He braces for the speech, “Gallagher.”

“It’s fucking Fiona alright.”

Unlike Ian whose presence is commanding- with his height and his broad chest and his striking features- Fiona is imposing in a whole different way. A little more wicked. Sure, Mickey’s talked to her before, seen her in passing, even in her own fucking house, but at the bar she’s not Ian’s sister. She reminds him of Mandy for a flash of a moment with the tough southside skin and sharp eyes. Woman like that, they gut you in a whole new way.

“You can’t hold him forever. He might let you, but we sure as shit won’t.”

Mickey’s spine stiffens. The inside of him, the trashy brutal part, is clawing at the gates to be let out. The words are in his mouth begging to be set free. _Oh yeah, the fuck you gunna do about it bitch?_ But all he can do is rub his temple, grit his jaw and clench the glass in his hand.

“He blames himself for everything. But we both did shit.”

“I know.”

“Why isn’t he angry with me?”

“You want him to be?”

Mickey pauses, maybe that’s what he needs, needs Ian to hit him back. He pushed Ian away too- called him a warm mouth, made him leave and played fucking volleyball with the guy’s feelings for months. To top it off, he beat him to a goddamn pulp once upon a time. 

“Ian has always loved people … **fiercely**. Ever since he was a kid, he was the one who would bring our mom home,” Mickey peers over at Fiona, he’s never heard a Gallagher other than Ian refer to Monica as anything besides Monica. “Ten years old and he would slip out of bed to go find her- check her hot spots ya know? I could never understand how he could love her so goddamn much when she was just hurting everyone- hurting herself.”

Mickey nods remembering the heinous stories of Monica Gallagher.

“I used to think you were a bad influence. And maybe you still are-,” Mickey snorts, “But- I haven’t seen him like this since you escaped prison. He dated, told me about some guys, but he doesn’t talk about anyone like he does about you. After everything- one bad word about you and we’re on the fuckin outs”

Mickey’s heart clenches. _Stupid fucking Ian Gallagher- couldn’t just sleep with Mandy and get the beat down he would have deserved. Had to come to his house with that damn tire iron and that snarky mouth and those beautiful bright green eyes._

Fiona slips off the stool and drains her glass in one swoop, “He’s at the house. Maybe it’s time to put up or shut up Milkovich.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title is Amnesia by 5SOS.


	5. knew we would crash at the speed that we were going, didn’t care if the explosion ruined me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's that 'eventual fluff' I was talking about.
> 
> Explicit sexual content.

Ian hasn’t seen Mickey since the night on the front steps and he’s cursing himself a little for it because seeing Mickey right now walking towards him is, all at once, way too overwhelming. He looks fucking hot too with his combed back hair and his jean jacket and those fuckin jeans that cling to his thighs. Ian wants to kick the railing he’s leaning up against in the backyard of the Gallagher house.

He keeps asking himself why he’s coming back here so often when he had been so eager to get away. But, in this moment he realizes this was his safe space. Which sounds absolutely fucking wild to say considering how much shit they'd all gone through here - even Mickey basically had surgery on his kitchen counter. That's the point though, he figures, they'd all had bad shit happen here and yet, after, they'd all been there to pick up the pieces. A lot of good had happened here alongside all that bad. A lot of good with _Mickey_. And now, as Mickey keeps taking steps toward him, eyes flicker up to look at him every so often, Ian realizes he'd kind of hoped Mickey would walk by- hoped he would stop in and Ian could have a moment of reprieve from the sliver of something sitting in his chest slicing against his heart every time he thinks of him.

Ian lets the smoke billow out of his mouth as he ashes the cigarette dangling from between his fingers, “Another date?”

Mickey scoffs, walking closer, “It was one fucking beer.”

Ian can feel where the wood digs into his forearms as he leans on the railing. He doesn’t really know what to say to that- what to say at all. It feels like Mickey’s moving on and if you love someone, and they don’t love you anymore, you don't stop them. You set them free or whatever. But it also cuts into him like a fucking knife and the part of him that is still down and dirty and every bit of the southside kid he's always been wants to fly off the fucking handle. So, instead, he focuses on the wood again and the way it digs into his arms with the weight of him.

“You deserve that.”

Mickey raises an eyebrow at him as he pulls the cigarette out of Ian’s hand, the jolt of feeling Mickey’s skin brushing against his own rolls over him like static shock. Ian knows his shoulders are way too tense and it’s because Mickey is standing so fucking close to him, “You know- a good guy. Good job, good looking- just, **good**.”

Mickey passes the cigarette back as Ian reaches out to grasp it, “You- ugh- gone out?”

Ian bites the inside of his cheek- he's kind of hopeful that he can hear what Mickey actually wants to say to him, _are you fucking anyone else, are you seeing anyone else, are you falling for someone._ He wants to be the Ian that was begging for Mickey outside his front door that day, _how could I look at anyone else when I’m so fucking in love with you_ , but he holds that Ian locked up inside himself, “No.”

He watches Mickey’s shoulders drop slightly, _relief_ , “Why?”

Ian pauses and looks over at the man standing next to him who isn’t turning to look back at him, who is focusing very painfully out at the empty Gallagher backyard, “You know why Mickey.”

Mickey nods, or bobs his head, Ian isn't sure but he can see he's pushing the flush that runs up his chest away. He starts walking down the steps but, when his feet hit the grass Ian can’t help himself, can't let this end here, “Why’d you come here?”

Mickey pauses and turns back to look at Ian. Ian can’t really decipher the moment- it feels really fucking off and weird and there’s so much flowing between them. Fuck, there’s always so much flowing between them. This goddamn electricity in the air is fucking brutal. How can you have such stilted goddamn moments with the one person in the world you can be the most yourself with, the one person you have ever been the most yourself with?

So, Ian straightens his back and raises his voice, “I get it now.”

Mickey furrows his brows, eyes squarely on Ian, “Get what?”

Everything around them feels angry again- sad and angry and so much more than it had been a few minutes ago, “I get that I’m fuckin terrible for you- I get that no matter what I do or say or how many times I fucking apologize, you don’t know if you can trust me. So, I get it –I could fly off the handle, meds could stop workin tomorrow. I get why you’re angry. I get why you don't,” he feels his voice crack as he clears his throat, "why whatever you felt is gone."

But that doesn’t seem to be anything that Mickey wants to hear as he turns more fully towards Ian from the space at the bottom of the wooden steps, “No. You fucking **don’t**. I stayed through all your bullshit - the cheating and the fucking depression and the goddamn kidnapping. I was going fucking insane and even after it, after mother fucking prison, I came back to you. Didn’t I tell you? You’re under my skin and I fuckin hate- christ Ian, I hate that it seems like _I’m not under yours_.”

Ian takes a few steps towards Mickey, absolutely fucking mind-blown as their eyes connect, “Not under my skin?” Ian lets his hand drift forward towards Mickey’s dangling fingers praying he doesn’t jerk away.

God, everything inside him is making him wonder how the _fuck_ Mickey could ever think he wasn't under his skin. After all this time, how he could even wonder. But then Ian remembers that old wounds, old insecurities, run deep. No matter how hard were shown evidence to counter them. So, as his fingers intertwine with Mickey's he lets the Ian inside his chest that wants to whisper sweet fucking nothings into Mickey's skin for the rest of his life out.

“You know," his voice is soft, low, just for the two of them and this moment, "most people know that their first love probably won’t be their last. They date and fuck around and get married two or three times. Maybe even once, and they're always wondering what if? Always wondering if something better is outside their front door. But with you? I knew Mick. First, last, all of it. I’ve been stupid about a lot of shit; back then I was pissed off you wouldn’t come out and you got married and that your life _couldn’t have me in it_. But I never doubted you were it. Despite the southside, prison, all of that, even when it felt like we were never going to be fucking **free**. But then, you got out, and-fuck Mick- you came to _me_.” Ian’s breathing heavily and his eyes feel the familiar itch of tears, “You know why I got that place Mick? So, we could do that. _Be free_. _Together._ ”

Mickey’s grip in his palm is so tight it almost hurts and Ian can tell he’s holding it together as best he can, “I can’t keep doing this. Not with you.”

Ian’s other hand is trailing up to grip the opening of Mickey’s jean jacket, their faces are so close now, “I know … No more carrying around a fucking scorecard.”

Mickey’s eyes close and the words seem to come out so easy for him now, “I need you.”

Ian breathes out, “Yeah?”

And Mickey hesitates because yeah, he does, _he loves him_. Even though he said he didn't. Even though he's sure he hurt Ian more than he ever intended. It just had felt so fucking buried beneath a mountain of resentment. Getting out of prison, seeing the life Ian had set up for himself with an apartment and a career- he hadn't felt part of it. So, in typical Milkovich fashion, he redirected. Anything he said, any of the bullshit he used that he had forgiven Ian for the moment it had fucking happened every single time because he was so goddamn gone on Ian fucking Gallagher, spilt out of his mouth. And the part inside his brain that knows how fucked up they’ve been too each other was stopping him- from moving on, from moving _in_. And it's like Ian can tell. Because in that moment where Mickey is sure all of this is written across his face, Ian lifts one hand to rest it partly on Mickey’s cheek, his thumb swiping across the cheekbone, “What do you want Mick? You want this? You want to try with me?” Mickey is breathing heavily trying to sort out the thoughts with Ian’s words ringing around him, “Because I do.”

“I didn’t mean it,” Mickey licks his lips, “When I said that I don’t- when you came to my house. I didn’t mean it.”

Ian’s voice is low and quiet, “Okay.”

And then Mickey’s hands are unclenching from his and moving up Ian's chest to wrap around his neck and pull them together. The kiss is soft- slow and chaste because it’s exactly the closeness they need, the feeling of being embraced again.

Ian smiles softly against Mickey’s mouth, “ _Come home_.”

*

Ian strips off his shirt from where he’s kneeling on the bed between Mickey’s open legs and then laughs when he hears Mickey’s gasp, “Hasn’t been that long since you’ve seen me shirtless has it?”

But then he’s looking at Mickey’s wide blue eyes, looking at the man beneath him as he pushes himself up to sit; to reach his hand out to run over Ian’s chest. Suddenly Ian remembers what he’s done. Mickey’s fingers are warm as they smooth over the nearly healed markings of his name over Ian’s chest. He looks up at him with this deep, unwavering stare that make Ian shudder and he can't help that it has him leaning down to capture Mickey’s open mouth. He leans Mickey back against the bed, his forearms bracing around Mickey’s head while Mickey’s hand stays firmly along the lines of the tattoo.

Mickey sounds breathless when their lips barely part, “When?”

Ian’s staring at him, trying to catch Mickey’s stare but his eyes are just searching Ian’s face. Ian murmurs quietly, “That night I left the Alibi.”’

Mickey’s body feels so good underneath him, but he’s got this look, a scared shitless look, like Ian is holding an answer that could fucking destroy him, “Why?”

Mickey wants to read it over and over and over, lets his fingers trace over and over and over it in the moonlight with the cool air and Ian’s low breathing. He doesn’t really need Ian to answer him, to tell him that it’s his name and yet its **more** than that. He knows its more because he knows exactly what he had been thinking when he had done it himself. It’s _you’re under my skin_. It’s _come here._ It’s all he really needs to know.

And Ian seems to understand that, as Ian always does, because he answers him by leaning in again; by touching him softly; by connecting their lips slowly at first and then falling into him all at once. Mickey remembers the familiar swop in the pit of his stomach as the weight of Ian sinks into him; he remembers feeling so lost in the burn of his skin and the dizziness in his head that he couldn't strand a single thought together if he tried. It feels like a cliche because it feels the same way they fell in love- _slowly, then all consuming_. Ian starts to move down his body in a way that Mickey can only describe as _reverently_. His lips trace down Mickey’s neck to his chest, to the tattoo and across his ribs. It's like they’re underwater and there’s no air in the goddamn room because Mickey can barely breathe with how gentle Ian’s being. Mickey groans when Ian rolls his hips down and breaks away from Mickey’s reddening skin to gasp at the feeling. Mickey can’t help his voice breaking at the sound, “ _Fuck_.”

It's in the back of Ian’s throat to say, _yes, yes, can I please_ because if there's one thing that having sex with Mickey has shown Ian it’s that while Mickey is strong-willed and silent in every aspect of his life, he is that way everywhere **_except_** here. _**Except**_ when Ian’s popping open the cap to the lube in his bed side table; when Ian’s got a hard grip on Mickey’s thigh; when he’s bracing his arms around Mickey’s head; when he’s panting heavily above Mickey with his hips grinding nice and slow. That’s when Mickey's ability to keep himself all wrapped up inside nose dives off a fucking cliff.

“Can I?”

Mickey knows he has always been bad with words, especially when it comes to the important things in his life- especially when it comes to Ian. But, one of the things that he thinks has always brought them together is Mickey's ability to act first- often recklessly- but mostly, with intent. So, Mickey lifts one of Ian’s hands to his mouth and sucks two of Ian’s long, thick fingers in. Ian’s eyes darken and it’s enough of a confirmation because Ian's eyes move to drag across Mickey’s mouth.

Mickey can’t help but lick across his bottom lip- a lip that is so clearly red and plush from Mickey biting down on it. It’s such a _good fucking look on him_ that Ian grits his jaw _._ Ian suddenly feels this ridiculous need to pull his hand back. He needs to get it inside Mickey _right fucking now_. He squeezes the lube he’s already got beside them on his fingers, letting Mickey’s eyes dance across his movements, and then he pauses. As much as he needs to get his hands on Mickey, he also needs to take his time. He knows Mickey loves his hands- remembers every gasp and heated glare when he had one wrapped harshly around his hip or thrust him back into a wall with a palm splayed across his chest.

Mickey’s knees fall open involuntarily from where Ian kneels between them and as Ian shifts down, he lifts his hips- guiding Ian’s fingers exactly where he wants them- and fuck, Ian can barely breath with the feeling of the buzzing in the room. It’s been so long since he’s had this, had Mickey under him, had his fingers inside him. But as he presses, as the bluntness and slickness of his fingers open Mickey up, the noises that splutter from Mickey’s mouth are _more than enough_. Mickey throws his head back into the pillows when Ian pushes a second finger into him. Ian can’t keep his mouth off him while he does it. Teasing Mickey with his tongue has always been one of his favourite past times.

“Fucking _Christ,_ Gallagher,” Mickey curses out. Ian takes that as his opportunity to slide a third finger in and the guttural moan that breaks from Mickey’s chest has his dick fucking _throbbing_. He needs more- to give Mickey more, to make him feel so much fucking more. He hooks his other hand under one of Mickey’s knees and pushes him back, opening him further and Mickey is grasping helplessly at the sheets as he moans- wanton and free and so hot Ian’s skin prickles.

“So _tight_ , Mick” Ian says, and it's got the exact affect he intends with Mickey clenching and bearing down to ride the fuck out of his fingers as Ian’s mouth continues to pepper across his skin. He can see Mickey’s dick twitch at his words, at the feeling of his mouth so close and yet so far away from where he wants it. When he drags his tongue along the side of it finally, Mickey barely has time to bite down the woeful noise that rips out of his chest.

It's like something is slotting into place for the both of them as they make eye contact while Ian continues to thrust his hand, and Mickey practically whimpers from the electrifying feeling climbing his spine. The two of them, being back together like this. Ian knows Mickey feels it, that something was missing. The two of them weren’t supposed to be apart. Not anymore. They weren’t made for it. All together it's enough that Mickey gasps when Ian presses one final open-mouthed kiss to the inside of his thigh.

His name, “ _Mickey_ ,” leaves Ian and the only thing Mickey can think as he hears it is _admiration, worship, veneration_. Ian sounds devastated and it's the only warning he gets before Ian is swallowing him down and crooking his fingers upwards in a move that singularly rips Mickey to fucking pieces. His hand flings from the sheets to Ian’s head as he thrusts upwards into his hot, wet mouth. His whole-body tenses and he’s biting his lip so hard to stop himself from coming that the muffled moans and tightening grip in Ian’s hair brings Ian’s eyes to his.

“Fuck me- Ian, I need- I want, _please_ -”

With anyone else Mickey would feel fucking pathetic, but he really can’t bring himself to care, can barely bring himself to think. He isn’t sure he can even register the words that Ian whispers as his mouth pulls off his cock _. I got you, baby._ He can feel the heat of his skin and the sweat on his forehead and he’s sure there’s an uptick of his heart when he hears Ian pop the lube cap again. He feels the bed dip and his eyes jolt open as Ian moves to hover over him. He’s got one hand on his cock guiding it towards Mickey which makes him practically pant in anticipation but the other, the other moves to grab the back of Mickey’s neck as his elbow presses into the mattress. The movement makes Mickey feel even hotter. Ian’s always been possessive- but it’s just the two of them and still, Ian feels that need to pull Mickey to him.

Ian presses his forehead against Mickey’s as he slides inside him, as his grip on Mickey's neck tightens, as his other hand moves to wrap behind Mickey’s knee and hike it up again. Mickey is pushing their foreheads together and he can feel his back ready to bow, to press their chest together.

“Mickey-… You’re _everything_.”

Their eyes are connected as Ian speaks but he doesn’t even give Mickey a chance to respond as he leans in to kiss him and thrusts further inside him. Mickey can't help groaning again into Ian’s mouth this time. Mickey just opens wide and lets Ian lick so deep and so fucking filthy with his tongue. He wants this **_forever_** \- and for the first time in a while, he wants to tell Ian. So, when Ian pulls back and his grip on Mickey’s knee tightens and pushes back, Mickey doesn’t stop his back from bowing into Ian. He lifts his limp arm and winds his fingers through Ian’s hair as he grunts, “I love you.” He dives back into Ian’s mouth and he knows Ian’s heard him as his movements start to get shaky and rough and hard. He’s hitting Mickey exactly where he needs to as Mickey’s tongue glides along his.

It feels final and fresh all at once.

They're together. And that, well _that's_ _everything_.

*

When they’re out for the world to see them, Mickey is **rough** \- as rough as he’s always been. He’ll backhand someone before he’ll apologize, and Ian hates to say that he loves it but **fuck** \- he _loves_ that version of Mickey. That Mickey, the piece of south side trash he fell in love with, makes his stomach drop and his face get warm. It has him running and laughing and smiling like he's a fucking rowdy teenager again. Ian usually finds himself pulling Mickey into a dark corner and shoving him up against a brick wall after a moment like that. Hot, open-mouthed, wet kisses down his neck just the way Mickey likes it. Taking him hard and fast down his throat while Mickey’s jeans strain around his thighs.

But when they’re at home. When it’s the two of them and the four walls of the new apartment they get together, Mickey is soft. _Softer_ , anyway. He says he loves him in ways Ian can barely comprehend. He’ll slip in behind him in the shower without a word, sometimes they’ll just kiss, slow and languid until the water starts to get cold. Or he’ll run a hand across Ian’s lower back when he’s cooking and press his mouth to Ian's shoulder. Or he’ll absent-mindedly play with Ian’s fingers when he’s soft and warm and they're bordering on sleep after he’s let Ian fuck him for what he swears is actual _hours_. And sometimes, Mickey will look up at him, over lunch or after a few drinks and Ian can just fucking feel it wash over him. The words he wants to hear. And even if Mickey’s not always ready to say it, not always comfortable feeling so vulnerable outside their four walls, what Mickey does is everything Ian needs.

Plus, they’ve got nothing but **time**.

So, at night, when Ian feels a little wound up or a little restless because the world goes on even if you feel like you've got your happy ending, he’ll drag his fingers through Mickey’s hair gently so as not to wake him and he’ll think about moments, their moments, the ones that brought them here to this bed. He'll think about that night in the backyard and the first time Mickey said 'I love you' casually and the first time he'd called him his boyfriend to a complete stranger. He'll think of moments in their future that’ll bring them closer. Weeks and months and years of wrapping his arm around Mickey's shoulders on the couch; of forcing Mickey to dance in the living room at Gallagher birthday parties; of **healing**. Then, just then, he’ll think about the small black box with the matching silver bands that he’s stashed behind some spare pillows on the high shelf of a hall closet that Mickey never bothers trying to reach. 

And he'll smile as he drifts off with Mickey in his arms.

_Yeah, they’ve got nothing but time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title is Dangerously by Charlie Puth.


End file.
